


What Little Time We Have Together

by ALOrated



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: 18th Century, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Magic, Alternate Universe - Royalty, M/M, Magic, More tags/relationships TBA
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-18
Updated: 2020-10-21
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:41:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27077434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ALOrated/pseuds/ALOrated
Summary: A series of shorts set in a world of natural magic and heavy political battles, focusing on character dynamics and stories. Enter in some of the main cast -- Hamilton, a lightning mage with a tongue more shocking than his spark; Jefferson, a royal advisor whose stories never quite add up; Laurens, the son of a rich and powerful man who ran off for the army to finally live a life of his own, and so on and on it goes. Lafayette, Hercules, Madison. Different people of many sorts.(This is a standalone series of ficlets; no prior knowledge is necessary. The chapter total may increase if I get more ideas/time to write/inspiration for this AU!)
Relationships: Alexander Hamilton/Thomas Jefferson, John Laurens/Gilbert du Motier Marquis de Lafayette
Kudos: 8





	1. Meeting in the Dead of Night

Two soldiers sat perched on a wall overlooking the lower sections of the capitol city where the mountains sloped to touch the bay. In the dead of night, the majority of the city’s inhabitants were asleep -- only a few workers shuffled about on their way home after a long shift, and most of the noise that reached them was from stray animals digging through garbage in the alleyways. Late in the night, but not so early in the morning that the dock workers had begun to rouse.

John stared down across the sweeping city. Built onto a slope as it was, from their position, he could see the far-away docks, glittering in the unwavering glow of the streetlamps, a soft orange that allowed night workers to see their way home without harming one’s eyes in the darkness. Light mages swept the city to illuminate the lamps every evening and extinguish them come dawn, but they had long since finished lighting the city by the time he sat on that wall, swinging his legs freely over the side.

He was still in his guard’s uniform. Technically, he hadn’t snuck away from his post...but he  _ was _ expected to be sleeping right now. He had been planning to do so, in fact, and had even been heading to their temporary barracks -- until he saw a fellow soldier of the crown slipping out into the night, followed, and the rest was history.

He glanced to the man sitting to his right. Lafayette was his name, if John was recalling correctly; despite being coworkers, he didn’t really know the man any better or worse than any of the other soldiers. Just another royal guard -- the only difference being he had decided on a whim to see where the other man was going in the dead of night between the guards’ shift changes.

John tugged at the kerchief looped around his neck, unsure if he was sweltering from the muggy summer’s night air or purely from the awkwardness of sitting in silence. Allowing his hands to fall to his sides, he rapped his fingertips against the shingles, finally muttering, “So...you sneak out often?”

Lafayette winced, and as the man shifted how he sat, John could see the moonlight reflect off the hilt of a knife strapped to his belt. Despite being armed with a gun as a part of his job duties, it appeared Lafayette hadn’t brought it with him. Too bulky or loud, if he had to guess. “I wanted to get out for some peace and quiet, so I...made a quick decision and slipped out,” the man supplied, and elaborated no more.

“Uh-huh...” John trailed off, not sure he really believed such an excuse -- it was at  _ least _ a planned escape -- but he at least could accept Lafayette only wanted some peace. Quiet, though, perhaps not so much, considering he was tolerating John’s presence, but all the same, he wasn’t exactly starting conversation of his own accord.

John was still in his uniform, pistol unloaded, but tucked into his belt. Lafayette, on the other hand, was dressed down into a dark, loose shirt and similarly colored trousers. A reasonable explanation for how easily the man had been able to slip out into the city late at night -- he blended into the shadows, and was hardly dressed so stiff and clunky as John himself was. (That aside, he was also  _ lithe _ . The city itself was built along a slope, so many of the streets were steep and several walls, each only a thin line of stone, helped serve to line roads that would otherwise lead to sudden drops into the houses below. To catch up to the wall Lafayette had chosen to perch on, John had been forced to run after him, and appeared nowhere near as effortless as Lafayette had been when he dragged himself up onto the wall with a heave and a grunt loud enough that the other man  _ had _ to have known he was coming.)

John sighed when it seemed the other soldier wasn’t going to at least  _ attempt _ to carry their conversation. “Well, it’s a nice night for walks.” Lafayette shrugged, and John huffed, the iron heels of his shoes clicking against the stone they sat on. “Euh, so...Lafayette  _ is _ your name, right? I haven’t been mentally calling you by the wrong thing this whole time?”

The other man snorted, and conceded a nod. John sighed, content to know that he was at least correct to that extent -- until Lafayette ruined his self-assured happiness with “Well, if you want to be technical, it is not my birth name. But it is...what I go by while I stay here.”

Now  _ that _ piqued John’s interest, and he tipped his head, looking over at Lafayette with one eyebrow raised. “What, so you just up and changed your name?” There were more than a few reasons someone might hide their birth name, most of them bad. Running from the law, for one.

“Something like that,” Lafayette agreed before falling silent, and John groaned in annoyance again. Most soldiers, when not in direct line of sight to their superiors, were quite talkative. Lafayette, clearly, was the exception -- but then again, if he  _ was _ a wanted criminal (and one who had a knife on his belt and was calmly sitting only a foot away from John, nonetheless!), John couldn’t imagine Lafayette was too excited to share the reasoning behind his new name. For once, John could use his brain and not pry too hard.

Trying to make himself look less intent on their conversation (at this point, he almost felt bad disturbing the other man’s night), he idly scratched one fingernail over the blocks of stone making up the walls. It was the same sort of stone that made up many of the residential homes here; surely it came from the same quarry, but he had never bothered to ask. He had never cared  _ that  _ much about the city’s history, to be frank. This place was considered a cushy job for soldiers, and it paid well. That was what got his attention more than anything else.

In one final attempt at conversation, John finally asked the quintessential ice breaker: “So...what type of magic do you have?” He had heard before that one’s magic often reflected their eventual careers or personality (a young fire mage may grow up to be a fiery-spirited blacksmith, for example), especially since children started showing their powers so young and had time to grow into them. Now, he wasn’t so sure how true that was -- especially since based on the people he’d met so far in the army, there was hardly any correlation between their magics and their jobs. After all, the grunts and foot soldiers didn’t need to be powerful, and most people weren’t -- there was a reason the more powerful mages, those who spewed lightning from their fingertips and summoned massive illusions to cover their tracks, were given special assignments and dedicated units.

Lafayette was staring at him, trying to gauge something in John’s expression, but seeing as his question truly was a fully innocent, albeit awkward, conversation starter, the man found nothing. Finally, Lafayette just shrugged and looked away. “I do not have any.”

“Huh?” That was...an odd way of phrasing things. Everyone had  _ some _ magic, even if it wasn’t very powerful, but even those with weaker powers (which, hell, were  _ most _ people!) loved to show them off. One of the Congressmen, Representative Hamilton, came distinctly to mind -- the man didn’t have the most powerful storm magic, but even as a very weak lightning mage, loved to use his powers at every opportunity, mostly for mayhem. It was well-known among staff and soldiers alike who interacted with him to avoid a handshake at all costs, lest you get zapped (if you were more friendly with him, on the other hand, a light pat on the head making all your hair stand up was to be more expected). Sure, there were some people whose powers weren’t strong enough to be useful, so they weren’t as noticeable, but-

If asked “what  _ type _ of magic do you have?”, being that was simply a general statement, a typical question...no matter how weak your powers were, you didn’t claim not to have  _ any! _ Unless...could a healthy adult really have such a naturally low magic level that he couldn’t use magic at all, or even have his magic type detected by a trained seer?

Alright, fine, if Lafayette wanted to play games, John could try the same. He made a show of raising his gaze back to the stars, thinking. Lafayette changed his name and ran off to join the army, and was either genuinely magicless, or was otherwise hiding his powers -- and considering it more, the latter would make just as much sense. The oldest and most powerful families often had magic unique to their bloodlines -- hence how they grew so wealthy in the generations before. It would make sense for Lafayette to hide that tidbit of information if his family was so easily identifiable.

...Or, it was possible that he really  _ didn’t _ have magic, and had been disowned. That actually made a fair amount of sense too. John groaned aloud upon the realization that in his attempt to out-think and one-up Lafayette, he had only confused himself more. Fortunately, he wasn't forced to come up with a proper response or voice his ideas -- and ideas he had, and questions too -- because Lafayette finally returned one of John's questions with, "And you?"

"Oh, ah- ahem." John took a second to compose himself before replying, "Telekinesis. Comes in handy when I want to have an extra, well,  _ hand." _ Lafayette stared at him with a bewildered look (John could practically see the gears turning in his head), before something  _ clicked _ and he laughed.

“Hah! Sorry, I am not the best with puns,” Lafayette admitted, and John smiled.

Setting aside his questionable past -- but really, didn’t half of the soldiers John know fit that bill? -- with a little warming up, Lafayette seemed nice enough.

And while John wasn’t exactly from an impoverished home himself (being a soldier meant gaining little freedoms for him, but he knew his family name had been what got him a cushy job as a guard to congressmen and royalty in the capitol), he had since learned that many people joined the army to get a better life, a different place. Escape their demons. It wasn’t his place to wriggle anything out of Lafayette that the man didn’t wish to share. Besides, he could speculate all day (or night, as was the current case) and not get much of anywhere -- and in the end, as long as speaking with Lafayette wasn’t sealing his fate for later trouble, he didn’t mind setting it all aside and sitting to chat and laugh.

“So, how long’re you planning to sit and stargaze?” John asked. 

Lafayette, in return, picked at the collar of his shirt before finally replying, “I don’t know. We will just wait and see, yes?”

“Hah, alright.” Considering Lafayette gave no indication of wanting to push John off the stone brick wall and onto the houses below, he took that as an invitation to stay, bumbling into another attempt at conversation -- while Lafayette was more reserved about his personal details, and had a shaky grasp at times on the language, he seemed happy to get into a talk about simple things, the weather, the stars, the bay.

And behind them, lingering among the darkness cast by the two men sat on the wall, a shadow lacking an owner tipped its head, then turned and rushed away into the depths of the city. While that Lafayette may be a strange fellow, there was nothing else of value to be found spying on two soldiers in the night -- not when there were targets to be found elsewhere who would be far more  _ applicable _ to their plot.


	2. Sweet Somethings

Alexander couldn’t quite pinpoint where or even why their…“thing” had begun. Yes, “thing” was a good term for it, because he couldn’t quite pinpoint what their relationship was supposed to be, either.

He knew where they had met. At least, where he  _ assumed _ they had met -- Thomas had a way of disappearing should he so desire, and Alexander couldn’t reasonably rule out that they had met before, but there was an equal chance Thomas had only really caught sight of him during that party. The whole affair -- the party they had met at, that was -- had been nothing out of the ordinary, even. There tended to be at least a few such social functions in the capitol city scattered about the year, usually coinciding with their Congress meetings, so of course, he would attend most of them. Nothing better to do in that blasted city, honestly, save for drinking with some other equally stiff government men. So, of course he was present for that night, though he was genuinely considering stealing some alcohol and running off to fraternize with the military men instead; at least they knew how to make a night interesting.

It had been in the middle of Alexander’s deep consideration over leaving that Thomas had approached him. He had been in a lovely, dark magenta-purple suit -- coat and breeches, a matching set -- that had an odd sort of shimmer to it in the light, like velvet or fine silk, matching a darker waistcoat and loose, looping bow in place of a more traditional cravat. His hair was splayed out loose, and he had a wide smile on his face, self-assured and cocky. As Alexander had looked him over, the bastard had stuck out a hand, introducing himself with an almost purring, “Thomas Jefferson, royal advisor.”

And then the fucker asked for a dance.

Alexander had laughed at that one and said he wasn’t a maiden waiting on a suitor, but still introduced himself with, “Representative Alexander Hamilton, at your service, sir.”

The rest of the night had been about as uneventful as before. He did eventually get up to dance -- not with Thomas -- and had eventually found his place with a group of like-minded politicians (not to say the alcohol didn’t help). By the time the night was drawing to a close and Alexander was returning to his provided housing, Thomas had withdrawn from the party, and Alexander didn’t attempt to seek him out.

Thomas had sprung up on him again, seemingly out of nowhere, during one of Alexander’s subsequent visits to the Capitol -- complete with a hand around his waist and a request for some time together that evening. Thoroughly confused, Alexander had accepted, and their night had been just as odd, if not more so. Thomas had asked him a number of questions that didn’t quite make sense -- wondering about Alexander’s past (he had declined to answer), Alexander’s take on a dozen hypothetical governments -- but had eventually shifted over into a hearty political debate. Alexander was simply thankful for the shift in their conversation, and even if the man was a nuisance, their meetups continued on and off from there. A way to spice up his evenings and provoke thought, he told himself.

Thomas was a color magician, so he claimed. Alexander had laughed in disbelief at that one; surely a man so powerful as a royal advisor wouldn’t merely have the magic to change colors about! Thomas had refuted that Alexander was a rather weak magician himself; at least Thomas could do something with his powers.

Thomas had shut his trap soon enough when Alexander took him by the hand (almost tenderly entwining their fingers together...) and shocked him hard by the palm, enjoying the squeak of alarm he got in response. Thomas was right that Alexander didn’t have the raw power to injure people outright with his magic; but, well, that was what guns were for. In the meantime, he would happily offer the horribly misplaced shock, like touching metal after rubbing one’s hands against their waistcoat several times, that he had inadvertently become known for.

(A few accidental discharges while heatedly debating on the Congress floor had earned him that reputation, though honestly, his opponents should just be thankful Alexander’s most dangerous trait was his mouth.)

Thomas shouldn’t have been so surprised. He was a royal advisor, after all, and as such was allowed to input his thoughts during congressional meetings, if he so desired. He should have known what all he was getting himself into.

They had only actively compared their magics once, out of simple curiosity. Alexander knew his powers weren’t strong -- everyone had magic, but very few had magic stronger than the ability to summon a small flame or something of similar magnitude -- and he had no shame in that. Still, Thomas had been so intrigued to refer to him as a genuine lightning mage and test out his powers; with concentration, Alexander had caught a piece of parchment paper on fire, to which he then yelped and threw it to the floor to stamp it out. Thomas refused to test out the extent of his own powers, but after enough goading had snapped and turned Alexander’s suit jacket purple -- purple, of course, being Thomas’ favorite color (and Alexander’s least favorite). Then, it had been up to Alexander to suck up to Thomas until the man finally agreed to change it back to its typical green that same night. With the raw magical ability Thomas hinted at holding, Alexander didn’t want to wait and see how long it would take for the color-changing effect to wear off, and especially didn’t want to suffer through an ugly-looking coat in the meantime.

Each of those experiences wasn’t quite where their “thing” began; it built up over time, and Alexander himself wasn’t really sure where they crossed the threshold. It wasn’t quite a relationship so close and endearing he swooned, because that wasn’t what they had; Thomas didn’t speak often of his own past beyond simple comments, and similarly, they didn’t act so friendly in the halls. Thomas slipped by as he had the time, they spoke of inconsequential things, and he left; they didn’t acknowledge what they had during work hours, and didn’t spend time together beyond that.

(Thomas had only once approached him in a gentle manner during the day. Alexander had had a rougher week than most, had been at his writing desk with a hand fisted in his hair and tears pricking at his eyes from the stress, from problems elsewhere that had finally caught up with him, things he usually ignored. Thomas must have kept an eye on him enough to know he had had an off week, and had stopped by just as those tears became real, brushing them away and asking- ordering, even- Alexander to come and sit down with him. He didn’t ask Alexander to share what had been the matter, but he did sit with an arm looped over Alexander’s shoulders, idly painting colorful flowers and birds against Alexander’s bed sheets until Alexander had finally slumped and drew away to wipe his eyes and nose. By the time he had turned back to thank Jefferson for staying near him, the man had disappeared, but Alexander held the experience close with fondness.)

Just a raw sort of comfort in an unexpecting place.

Thomas was a funny individual. He always claimed he had grown up there in the Capitol, but paused for a moment too long when Alexander asked him anything specific that a child who had lived there would surely know. He had mentioned before that his father was dead and gone, but would always have this regretful look on his face when speaking on the matter, as though the separation hadn’t been nearly as clean as he said it was.

For all Alexander’s thoughts on how Thomas kept his past to himself -- though, really, Alexander couldn’t blame him, as he did the same, hiding the exact details of his childhood from Thomas and the public eye alike to prevent the harsh judgement he knew he would face -- there was one special thing that Thomas shared with him. At least, to an extent.

It was that mark over his eye.

Thomas had a handsome face about him, at least in Alexander’s opinion, all soft lips and expression turned up in a soft smile...but the skin around his right eye was notably darker than his natural skin tone; a single pitch black mark stretching from where his cheeks creased in an easy smile to his forehead and right ear. 

Thomas had kept that part of himself hidden for the longest time, carefully ensuring that the magic keeping that patch of skin the right color hadn’t begun to fade, but one night had come in exhausted, and perhaps a bit drunk. Stumbling over his words, something he never did, blurted out a hushed question: could he drop his magic? It was so much of a bother to keep it up overnight.

And from then on, during the long nights they spent together, once he was sure that they were alone, he would drop the magic covering it and reveal that mark, the only part of himself he ever changed with his magic, at least as far as Alexander had seen.

Alexander was naturally curious about the mark. In his few sessions egging on Thomas to use his magic, he had seen the man have no issue with imparting long-lasting enchantments onto whatever he desired to mess with that evening.

(There it was, that playful side of Thomas no one ever knew. He had asked, once, if Thomas was looser back home, with only people he knew and trusted, where he didn’t need to concern himself with keeping up the appearances and status of his position as an advisor. Thomas had admitted that, yes, he was something of a different man back home. Alexander wished he would one day be able to see it.)

And just like that, Alexander’s curiosity about Mr. Jefferson grew. For the most part they made sure never to delve into the other’s personal history too far; a degree of polite separation was only proper to maintain the fun, in his opinion. Thomas sometimes pushed to hear more about him, but he shut that much down quick enough, and redirected the conversation back to him -- why was it so difficult for him to cover up that mark?

Thomas only sighed at that, muttering that sometimes, magic likes to work in funny ways, and it was always a struggle to return that mark to a tone that matched the rest of his skin. He knew the mark  _ itself _ was a by-product of his magic, even, and was rather unamused by how it had been persistent over the years without any fade.

He had let the subject lay for a time, though he occasionally paused to wonder how exactly someone’s magic could backfire in such a way. It wasn’t unheard of for a powerful young fire mage to burn things by accident, sure, but color magic leaving a persistent mark for  _ years? _

Eventually, one evening while lying curled in Thomas’ arms, Alexander shifted to face the other man. He had huffed out his room’s candle before their meeting that night began, but the soft moonlight filtering in through the windows provided him just enough light to make out the shape of the other man.

“Thomas?”

“Mn? Yes, darlin’...?” Thomas replied, dragging a sleepy hand across his face.

“How- if you, ah- if you don’t mind me asking...how did you get that mark over your eye? You said your magic caused it, so I assume you recall it happening.” Children didn’t tend to discover their magic until a few years of age. Alexander was sure he would have been even more of an insufferable child if he had also been able to summon sparks at will from the day he was born.

He didn’t miss how Thomas’ previously-tired movements stiffened, fingertips resting across where Alexander knew his mark would be even if he weren’t encased in shadow, and he quickly withdrew his hand, fumbling for a reasonable excuse. After a few beats, he managed, “An incident, as a child.” Alexander didn’t immediately respond, and as if urged on by the heavy silence, Thomas stumbled on, “It was- nothing. Don’t concern yourself with it.”

Alexander realized he had properly touched a sore spot with the question -- doubly so when Thomas pulled away, sitting up and moving to collect the coat he had draped over the back of Alexander’s desk chair. “Shit, wait. You don’t have to talk about it.”

The ‘ _ I’m sorry’ _ went unsaid.

Thomas paused by the door, sucking in a shaky breath. When he turned back, his face was finally illuminated by the moonlight, and he had already hidden his mark once more. Alexander’s worried frown deepened upon seeing that Thomas’ expression wasn’t one of anger, or even hurt. It was of...disappointment, regret, sadness but not directed at Alexander. At himself.

“I just...need some time to think about things. Sleep well, Mr. Hamilton.”

“...Right. You too.”

Their “thing” didn’t deserve a name. It was too little, too weak, too strange, but it was something, and Alexander didn’t want it to end. He wasn’t sure why Thomas had sought him out as he did, but he didn’t exactly mind it. They had their sweet nights together, Thomas had his secrets and Alexander had his own, and come the day, they’d draw apart once more and pretend as there was nothing between them. They’d return to snipping at each other, if they cared to speak at all -- Thomas sure had a lot of nerve going up against Alexander in political debate; royal advisor position be damned, Alexander represented the people, even if Thomas said he only represented the well-off.

And Alexander would fight him on that one, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Introducing Mr. Jefferson! His magic is mostly useless for his purposes, though it is fun to work with.
> 
> The concept of color-magic fading has to do with how magic works in this universe -- many magics (such as lightning) are one-off bursts of power, but some, like illusions and color magic, can stick around for longer if the mage is powerful enough. Eventually, the magic will wear off and whatever they created will fade away, leaving the original untouched. That's also the concept behind making enchanted objects!

**Author's Note:**

> Kopavus (the name of this story/world/AU) is an original story I started developing several years ago, including heavy world/character/story development, but never actually sat down and wrote it. While it would be too large an undertaking to attempt to actually write it all these days, let alone as a Hamilton story, I thought it may be fun to write a few shorts with the Hamilton cast present in the world. This more-or-less introduces the world from scratch, but feel free to ask if you want to learn more about a particular scene or character!
> 
> I'll usually post updates to this story on [this account](https://beeshavethrees.tumblr.com) which is a Hamilton-specific blog! I'm always happy to respond to asks/requests/PMs there :)


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